


hell is empty (all the devils are here)

by probablyfakenews



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional conflict? In my Peter Parker? It’s more likely than you think, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Overuse of spider sense, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), eventually, kind of, there’s gonna be a lot of hurt before we get to the comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23214634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probablyfakenews/pseuds/probablyfakenews
Summary: Peter is too young to have a heart attack.But as Tony smiles up at him, his grin lopsided from the scars that stretch across half his face, Peter knows exactly how it feels for his heart to stall in his chest. The last time he saw that face had been during a hallucination-based hellscape, and it had been rotted down to no more than a skull, with spiders making a home in his eye sockets. It is a face that belongs in nightmares and memorial pieces, not in flesh and blood."Hey, kid," Tony says. "Long time no see."Or, Quentin Beck isn’t dead. Neither is Tony Stark. Everybody knows this but Peter.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

_"Spider-Man's real name is Peter Parker!"_

There are times when the world seems to stand still. Like the time he pressed his hands over Ben's pulsing wound, but felt nothing, heard nothing other than his uncle's last words, whispered to him in that strange place where nightmare and reality were one and the same. Like when he watched, frozen, as Pepper placed Tony's heart on the still surface of the lake, bared for the world to see. Hardship gave time new meaning, or sometimes no meaning at all.

But this? This is not one of those times.

As Peter watches Beck give his final announcement, the world comes at him too quickly. Too loudly. The last time he saw Beck's eyes, they had been cold and glassy in death. But now? They watch him. Pick him apart. Tear him to pieces with the entirety of New York watching from the sidelines. The screen changes, and Peter finds himself staring into his own eyes, but the boy in the photo might as well be a stranger. Does he really look that young, that carefree?

"What the fuck?" He cradles his head in his hands. "What the _fuck_?"

The street below is struck into silence, but Peter can still hear them. Hundreds, no, thousands of beating hearts and shifting bodies. Their eyes bear into him. It feels like they were looking right past the suit, exposing the scared kid beneath. 

He can pinpoint Michelle's gasp of alarm. He focuses on her, trying to ground himself. It works, for a moment. 

But then the moment passes, and all hell breaks loose.

Angry, confused shouts rise up from the crowd. Someone throws a bottle at him, and he ducks a second before it would have smashed against his face.

"Peter, go!" Michelle shouts. "Get out of here! Go!"

His spider sense, that's what he’s calling it now, flares up at the base of his neck. He ducks just in time to avoid a ratty sneaker that had been chucked at him.

"A shoe? Really?" he calls out.

"Murderer!"

"Terrorist!"

"I bet you wish Stark was still alive to cover up all your crimes!"

“Shut up!” Michelle yells. A gaggle of New Yorkers shout in agreement.

“He’s a hero!“

“I love you Spider-Man! Don’t listen to them!”

Peter looks to Michelle. He desperately wants to swing down and carry her off to safety. But he is the target of their wrath, not her. She blends in with this crowd of screaming New Yorkers, and if anyone saw them swinging together a few minutes ago, no one says anything now. 

He would only put her in more danger.

Michelle meets his gaze. Understanding shines in her eyes. She nods once. Peter returns the gesture and leaps off the light post, ignoring the shouts and protests that follow in his wake. He swings past the screen just as the broadcast fades to black.

"Peter," Karen says. “You have twelve missed calls and thirty-five new text messages from the last five minutes. Would you like to return your calls from Mrs. Parker, Mr. Hogan, or Mr. Leeds?"

"Call Tony. Please." 

Karen's tone softens. "Of course."

Peter climbs to the roof of the tallest building in sight. He nestles into a corner and tries to control his breathing. A dial tone rings through the speakers of his suit and goes straight to voicemail, like it always does. 

"I really messed up this time, Tony. The, uh, the spider is out of the bag. Remember that guy I was telling you about? Beck? Yeah, he’s an asshole. You probably knew that, though.” 

Peter sighs. He feels like he’s aged ten years in the last ten minutes. “I don't know how to fix this. I don't know if this is even fixable. I need you. I wish you were still here.”

He ends the call and ducks his head, listening to the police sirens in the distance. He can’t stay here. 

A notification pops up on his suit feed. Happy is calling him. 

“Happy?” he answers.

“Peter, thank God. You are really hard to get a hold of, you know that?”

“Everyone knows, Hap. They all hate me!” A realization hits him like a ton of bricks, and Peter gasps. “Aunt May! She was at work, I have to find her—“

“She’s fine, kid. She’s with me. I picked her up the second I heard the news,” Happy reassures him. “It’s you I’m more worried about.”

“Me?”

"SHIELD is massing a large force in New York. Looks like they are starting to surround you."

Peter breathes a sigh of relief. "That's a good thing, right? Fury knows I'm innocent! They’ll help me out of this."

"I thought that at first. But they aren't responding to any of my attempts to contact them. Fury is radio silent, which isn't unusual for him, now that I think about it, but I don't have a great feeling about it. This force of theirs is no joke. It looks more like they are going to war than offering to be your protective detail."

Dread creeps into Peter’s heart. "So, what do I do?" he asks. 

A pause. "Normally, I would tell you to do whatever SHIELD tells you."

"Normally?"

"Don't let them take you anywhere, kiddo.” There’s a raw panic in Happy words that sets Peter on edge. “Get somewhere safe. I'll find you, and we'll figure it out from there. Stay safe.”

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted by the sound of a helicopter approaching from behind. The wind off of the propellers nearly knocks him over. A white shield logo stands in stark contrast to the black metal of the hull.

The door to the roof kicks open, and SHIELD agents in full riot gear pile through. Nick Fury himself strides in after them, calm and collected. Peter tenses, crouching low. He has two options. He can either fight and try to force his way through the agents, or he can leap from the roof and hopefully not get hit by the spray of bullets that will surely follow. 

Fury must sense his intentions, because he steps forward with an air of authority that leaves no room for argument. “Parker! Stand. Down.”

He risks a glance to the side, but all it does is confirm that he is surrounded on all sides, pressed back against the edge of the roof. “What are you going to do with me?” Peter shouts over the wind. 

“You are under arrest for the murder of Quentin Beck. Come with us quietly, or we will bring you in by force.”

Peter chokes. “Murder? You were there! You know he was a fraud! I didn’t kill him!”

Fury’s gaze is cold, unyielding. “That’s for the court to decide. You will await your trial in a cell on the Raft.”

Peter takes a step back, then another. Panic claws at his chest. “No,” he gasps. “I can’t go the Raft, Fury. I won’t.”

His spider sense cuts through him like a hot knife. He gives way to instinct and just barely manages to avoid the bullets aimed his way. He whips his arm out and sticks a web to the helicopter, which yanks his body away at a sharp angle. Searing pain stabs through his calf, and he can only assume a bullet is now buried in the flesh there. He slings himself around the back of the helicopter, using it as cover from the fire. 

Peter does not expect a net to be tossed out the side of the helicopter. It wraps around his limbs. The tight metal cables cut into his skin, and he cries out from both shock and pain as his momentum is brought to a sudden halt. 

The net hangs limply from the bottom of the helicopter, leaving him eye level with Fury, who now stands at the edge of the roof. 

“This isn’t up for discussion, Parker.” Fury’s expression is unreadable. 

“Let me go!” Peter wriggles in the net and sucks in a sharp breath when it disturbs the wound on his leg. 

Fury hums, disappointed. “Now, we can’t have that.” Peter watches with trepidation as the man reaches into the pocket of his trench coat and pulls out a small, black remote. His finger traces the button a couple of times, as if in contemplation. 

Peter doesn’t know what the button does, but his spider sense curdles in his stomach at the sight of it. He really does not want Fury to press that button.

However, because the universe hates him, Fury presses the button. 

A crackling sound creeps through the wire netting above him, a grim warning of pain to come. Electricity surrounds him. His muscles tense. His back arches. As if that will help escape the burning, the _searing_. His vision goes white, overwhelming and blinding, before fading slowly to black.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter wakes to the smell of burnt hair and the fragile weight of a collar around his neck. 

Exhaustion drags down his limbs, as if some of his life force has been siphoned out. His body sinks deep into a surprisingly soft bed, cocooned in comfortable blankets. Peter’s spider sense should be going haywire, but in its place there is an eerie emptiness. Not as if it is lying dormant, but as if it is not there at all. 

Peter’s eyes fly open. The room is dark save for the warm yellow glow of a lamp on the bedside table. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else in the room with him, so he sits up, letting the plush comforter pool around his waist. He’s wearing clean clothes, a simple MIT t-shirt and sweatpants, but they aren’t his. His suit is nowhere to be found. 

The meager light should be enough for Peter to make out his surroundings, but his vision is blurry like it used to be when he would forget to wear his glasses before the bite. He blinks to clear his eyes, but it does nothing to help. Dread pools in his gut. He scoots to the edge of the bed, places his feet on the floor, and experimentally tries to stick to the hardwood. Peter stares down in dismay as his foot slides off the floor with ease.

His powers are gone. 

Shaking fingers dig at the collar, but he can’t even make a dent in the device in his weakened state. A low whine builds in his throat. He needs out of here. He needs _out_. He wishes he could call Tony, but his mask is gone and his phone is nowhere to be found. The overflowing voicemail might not be able to respond, but talking to it gives Peter comfort anyway.

Ghosts make really good listeners. 

He forces himself to stay calm and take stock of his surroundings. A framed photo of an unfamiliar woman and girl sits on the nightstand next to a glass of water. His throat is dry and scratchy, but he doesn’t dare take a drink. In front of the photo sits a neatly folded pair of glasses. Curious, Peter tries them on. His vision returns to crystal clarity, as if the glasses were tailored for him specifically.

He grins. _Finders keepers_.

Peter eases to his feet. His calf is still sore from the bullet wound, but the pain is manageable enough for him to walk on it. The room is messy and mostly undecorated, but definitely lived in. A small bookshelf has been shoved into the corner, piled high with textbooks and action novels. Dirty laundry is scattered across the floor. It’s so normal that it terrifies him. He was expecting the Raft to be cold and clinical. This is more like a college dorm than a prison, except that there don’t seem to be any windows. Peter slips on a pair of discarded sneakers and makes his way for the door.

It’s unlocked.

He opens it slowly and is nearly blinded by the sudden influx of light. Voices drift in from the other room. Peter creeps to the edge of the corridor, careful not to let the floorboards creak beneath his feet. It opens up to a small living area. The space is homey but bland, as if the tenants haven’t quite finished moving in. Like the bedroom, there are no windows, but pale blue curtains hang on the wall as if to simulate the effect. A metal door protrudes from the wall opposite, cutting into the cozy aesthetic like a blade. There is no knob or peephole. Instead, a discrete keypad is tucked against the doorframe.

The eerie blend of dangerous and domestic makes Peter’s brain hurt. Maybe the true purpose of the Raft is to drive him insane from all the contradictions.

An elegant white couch sits in the middle of the room, facing a large flatscreen television. What little decor they have seems tasteful and expensive, but the effect is muted by the avalanche of papers and food wrappers spread across the otherwise pristine coffee table. 

A young man is sprawled across the couch, watching TV. Peter can only see the back of his head, which is covered with messy brown hair not unlike Peter’s own. Is this his cell mate? Is he a mutant too? Peter wonders if it would be insensitive to ask. 

The television is playing footage of his fight with SHIELD. Peter averts his eyes as his past-self gets caught in the net. He would rather not relive that experience, thanks.

_“SHIELD, in partnership with law enforcement, released a statement that confirms that Peter Parker, more widely known as Spider-Man, has been taken to the Raft prison to await trial for terrorist allegations and the murder of Quentin Beck_ ,” the news anchor explains. The video is replaced by a headshot of Peter, the same one Beck used in his broadcast. Peter recognizes it from his last yearbook. Crisp white text details his alleged crimes.

_“Many citizens are outraged at the violent arrest of their local hero, but SHIELD assures the public that Parker only received minor injuries during the altercation. They would like to remind the public that Parker poses a serious threat to the city and the world at large, and they take the matter of his containment very seriously.”_

The floor creaks as Peter shifts his weight, and the television immediately pauses. The young man turns around on the couch to face Peter. His eye is lightly bruised and swollen, a black eye that has mostly healed.

“You’re awake!” he says, his face lighting up like the sun. He looks to be in his early twenties. Peter notices that, unlike himself, the guy is not wearing a collar. “About time, sunshine. I was starting to get lonesome out here.”

_This guy is way too happy to be a prisoner_ , Peter thinks. _Or maybe he’s been here so long he’s lost his marbles_.

His cellmate (?) grabs a pair of crutches that are propped up against the side of the couch and uses them to support his weight. A cast covers his right leg up to the knee. Colorful squiggles wind around the cast, a hodgepodge of messy signatures and childlike drawings. Peter should probably go and help him instead of watching the guy hobble around, but wariness freezes him in place.

The young man stops a few feet away from Peter. “Dude,” he says. “Are you wearing my shoes?”

Peter twists his ankle, examining the worn Nikes. Taking the shoes seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it’s just awkward. He shrugs. “Sorry?”

“Nevermind. They look good on you! Borrow ‘em for as long as you need,” the young man says. “Anything for family.”

“Family?” Peter rasps. His throat feels like the inside has been ground down with sandpaper. “I just met you.”

“Hot damn, your voice sounds rough. Didn’t you drink the water we left you? Here, let me get you some more.”

“No, that’s alright.” Peter really doesn’t want to watch this guy hobble around anymore. “I’m fine.”

“Uh huh. Anyway, where are my manners? Pepper would be so disappointed in me.” The young man tucks his crutch under his arm so that he can extend his hand. “I’m Harley. Harley Keener-Stark.”

_Stark_? Peter stares at him a moment too long. Harley chuckles awkwardly and wiggles his fingers. Peter returns the handshake, but the gesture feels distant, as if his limbs are not his own.

“Peter Parker,” he offers. Aunt May didn’t raise him to be rude. 

“Oh, I know who you are, Pete. I’ve wanted to meet you for years,” Harley says. “I mean, I saw you at the funeral, but neither of us were in a good place that day. I doubt you even remember me.”

Harley’s right. Peter doesn’t remember him. That entire day was a blur.

“Stark, huh?” Peter asks. He hopes his voice sounds more casual than it feels. “Any relation to, um...”

“To Tony?” Harley gives him an odd look. “Dude. I’m his son.”

_What?_

“Mr. Stark didn’t have a son.”

“You don’t know?”

The confusion must show on Peter’s face. Harley sighs. He must realize that this conversation will take longer than expected, because he shuffles back to lean against the couch. He pats the cushion to his left, and Peter joins him.

“The Snap took my family,” Harley says. “My mom and sister. I didn’t have anyone left until Tony and Pepper took me in.”

Peter remains quiet, as he always does when people talk about the time between the Snaps. Harley smiles. It’s a soft, private gesture that reflects five years of time that Peter will never experience. Envy boils in his gut, and Peter feels ugly because of it.

“I was just a kid back then,” Harley continues. “About the age you are now. God, I was a mess. They saved my life when they adopted me.”

Peter crosses his arms, hugging his chest. “That was... nice of them,” he manages.

“He used to talk about you all the time, you know. Seriously, he wouldn’t shut up about the amazing Peter Parker. It used to drive me crazy!” Harley laughs, but sobers quickly. “He never stopped loving you. No matter how long you’d been dead. I don’t think he ever really came to terms with it.”

Peter knows the feeling. Tony has been dead for eight months, but when he closes his eyes, Peter sometimes still finds himself on that battlefield, his knees in the dirt, pleading to Tony’s absent gaze. He wonders if Tony’s mind had been stuck on Titan all those years that Peter had been gone, or if he finally worked through it, filling the space Peter left with a new son and daughter. 

“Oh,” he chokes out. The room suddenly seems much, much hotter. Sweat beads at the base of Peter’s neck. “I think I’ll get that glass of water now. Excuse me.”

Peter darts past Harley and ducks into the adjacent room. Thankfully, he ends up in the kitchen. He grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it from the tap, but the water does little to soothe the ache in his throat or the tremble in his hands.

Peter feels like an idiot. Tony had a son. A son that is funny and intelligent, if the MIT merch means what Peter thinks it means. A son who Tony lived with and loved for years. Who is Peter compared to that? An awkward fanboy that Tony felt responsible for?

And why hasn’t Peter met the guy before? 

Harley, who has every right to be grieving, seems fine. Meanwhile, Peter can barely talk about Tony without freaking out. Is there something wrong with him? Or is Harley just ridiculously well-adjusted? Maybe he should ask his new cellmate for coping advice.

Footsteps are coming his way. Peter sets the glass in the sink and pulls himself together. “Sorry, Harley, I didn’t mean to keep you—“

The words die in his throat. Leaning against the entryway is Nick Fury in all of his trench-coated glory. Peter can see Harley standing just behind the man, eavesdropping.

“Parker.” Fury smirks. “I trust you are settling in all right?”

Peter wants to knock that stupid, smug expression of his stupid, smug face. However, his fear wins out over his anger.

“There’s been a mistake,” he blurts out. “You know me. You know I didn’t do this. I don’t belong on the Raft!”

Harley snorts. “You think this is the Raft?” he says. “Oh man, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Wait ‘til Pepper learns you think her decorating style looks like a prison.”

“Keener,” Fury warns. “Out.”

Harley rolls his eyes. “It’s Keener-Stark,” he mutters. Harley gives Peter one last reassuring smile and leaves the room. Peter wishes he would stay. Being in a room alone with Nick Fury rarely ever ends well.

“The Raft story was only something to give to the public to explain your whereabouts. You are being held in a safe house within a private SHIELD base,” Fury informs him. “You aren’t in trouble. We know you didn’t kill Beck.”

Some of the tension eases from Peter’s shoulders, but it’s hard to feel relieved when there’s still so much uncertainty. “How long have I been here?” Peter asks.

“Two days.” Fury looks him up and down and seems unimpressed with what he sees. Peter tries not to take offense. “That shock did more damage than expected. We must have overestimated your capabilities.”

“And I must have overestimated your capability to not be an asshole, but I guess we’re both disappointed,” Peter snaps. “Couldn’t you have just asked me to come to your super secret base? The light show was a bit much.”

“Can it, Parker. I get enough snark from the Stark brats,” Fury says. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be the nice, sensible kid? I didn’t realize Stark raised all three of you hellions in his image.”

”I tried being nice with you in Europe. I guess you could say I learned my lesson,” Peter reasons. Then he remembers something Fury said earlier. Stark brats, plural. “Morgan’s here, too?”

“Unfortunately.” Fury sighs deeply, as if he’s exhausted down to his core. _Mood_ , Peter thinks. “I’m not paid enough to deal with this family.”

Peter doesn’t dignify that with a response. He tugs at the metal collar. “If I’m not in trouble, then what is this for?”

“We knew you’d do something stupid if we didn’t have a way to keep you under control,” Fury explains. “The collar will be removed in due time. First, we need to debrief you on the mission.”

“ _Mission?_ ” Peter sees red. He takes a step toward Fury, but without his powers, he doesn’t feel very intimidating. Fury doesn’t seem to think so either. “You kidnapped me, and now you want me to go on a mission for you? Are you serious?”

“Deadly serious.” Fury pulls the remote from his pocket, the same one used to activate the net. He traces the button with his thumb, once, twice. “Don’t forget, Parker. We aren’t asking.”

Peter swallows. He holds his hands up in surrender. “What do you want from me?”

Fury stares at him for a long moment. Peter can feel himself being torn apart, analyzed. 

“Let’s walk and talk.”

As they step out of the Starks’ living room, the decor does a 180 from chic minimalism to secret government agency. Peter follows Fury down a long, bright hallway. SHIELD personnel give them a wide berth as they pass by. The two walk in silence for several minutes before Fury finally takes pity on him.

“Long story short,” he says, giving Peter a sideways glance. “Quentin Beck isn’t dead.”

Peter stops. He scans Fury’s face for any sign that the man is joking. He finds none. “No,” Peter says. “No, he’s dead. I _saw_ him die.”

“And it was very convincing. Had us fooled for a while, too. But I assure you, Beck is alive. And he has been a thorn in our side for weeks.” Fury sounds exhausted. Frustrated, even. Peter watches him, transfixed. He didn’t know the man could even feel emotions. 

“Any you need me to help stop him?” Peter asks.

“I promised not to involve you in this. However, it has become abundantly clear that your enhanced senses are the only thing that can cut through Beck’s illusions. You are the only man for the job,” Fury says. “Although I use the term ‘man’ quite loosely.”

“You know, I would still have those enhanced senses if I wasn’t wearing this collar...” Peter mutters. 

“Nice try, kid. Like I said, the collar stays until we finish debriefing you.”

Fury starts walking again. Peter struggles to keep up. “What more is there to know?” he asks.

“You won’t be working this one solo. Your partner for this mission is waiting in the conference room. He is quite excited to meet with you.”

Peter scoffs. “Yes, because me working with a partner worked out so well in Europe.”

“No need to be a smart ass. Don’t worry, I trust your new partner with my life, as much as I hate to admit it.” Fury stops in front of a door. “He’s just through here.”

Fury holds the door open for him. Peter ducks inside, each step heavier than the last. The collar is starting to weigh on him. It seems to suck the energy right out of him, leaving him vulnerable and frighteningly normal. Peter can’t wait to get this meeting over with so that he never has to put up with that collar again.

The conference room is not particularly interesting with white walls, carpeted floors, and a long wooden table that takes up the majority of the space. At the far end of the table sits a dark-haired man. He is bent over a case file of sorts, studying it meticulously, and doesn’t seem to notice them. 

Behind Peter, Fury clears his throat. The man at the table looks up. Peter sucks in a sharp breath. He knows that man. He freezes, because the familiarity and the impossibility of the man’s presence collide and leave him reeling.

Peter is too young to have a heart attack. 

But as Tony smiles up him, his grin lopsided from the scars that stretch across half his face, Peter knows exactly how it feels for his heart to stall in his chest. The last time he saw that face had been during a hallucination-based hellscape, and it had been rotted down to no more than a skull, with spiders making a home in his eye sockets. It is a face that belongs in nightmares and memorial pieces, not in flesh and blood. 

“Hey, kid,” Tony says, standing. “Long time no see.”

Peter stills. “Mr. Stark?” he asks. He’s almost afraid to speak, as if voicing it will shatter some part of him, something deep inside that he’ll never be able to repair.

Tony spreads his arms out wide, forever and always a showman. He grins, but there’s a tenseness there that feels out of place. “The one and only.”

Peter can’t breathe. He drops into a crouch, one hand on his chest, the other warding off Tony’s attempts to comfort him because that’s not Tony Stark. That can’t be Tony Stark.

“Kid? Kid, you need to breathe.” A ghost is talking to him. God, he sounds just like Tony used to. Peter tries to cover his ears, but hands catch his wrists. One of the hands feels normal, but the other is heavy and cool, as if is wrapped in a metal glove. “Peter!”

“You’re dead.” Peter shakes his head. “I’ve lost it. I’ve finally lost my mind.”

The air still won’t come. His chest feels tight, like his lungs have been coated in cement. He tries to take a deep breath and is rewarded with a coughing fit for his efforts. The more air he tries to take in, the less there seems to be. 

The hands around his arms still have him in an iron grip. He struggles weakly against them. If he still had his powers he would break those hands. 

“Don’t touch me,” he gasps. “Get away from me. I can’t.”

He is released. The imposter leans back. “Can’t what, Pete?”

“I can’t breathe!”

Tony is on his feet in an instant. He yells at Fury, but Peter can barely hear him. He’s drowning on dry land. The words sound as if they are filtered through gallons and gallons of water. He collapses onto his knees and hands. His glasses slip off his face, and he finds himself staring at the blurred gray carpet. It’s the only thing in this room that makes sense. He clings to it like a life preserver. 

“Get that collar off him! Now!”

“That’s not wise, Stark. He’s clearly not stable, and I will not have an emotionally compromised child with super strength running unchecked around my base!”

“We’ll deal with that later—“

“The collar is there to protect _you_! If someone lied to me the way you’ve been lying to this boy, I would kill them in a heartbeat. When he pulls himself together, he’s gonna be pissed. At you. Can you handle a punch from a kid that can benchpress a semi truck?”

“That doesn’t matter right now! Before he was Spider-Man, Peter had severe asthma! He can’t breathe, Nick. The collar is killing him!”

A pause. “ _Shit_.”

There’s a loud click as a weight falls away from Peter’s neck. The electronic collar falls to the ground by his knees. Peter can feel the skin and muscle of his calf finish stitching itself back together. The ache in his throat lessens. After a few more seconds of wheezing, he breathes in deep and manages a steady gulp of air. The pressure in his chest loosens. 

“Easy, easy.” The hands are back, gently lifting him into a seated position. “You’re okay, now.”

Peter glares at the imposter. He will never be okay, not after this. His spider sense is back, lying dormant at the base of his neck. He reaches out with it, trying to determine if Tony is one of Beck’s illusions, but he can’t pick up anything nefarious about him.

Peter rounds on Fury. “What is this?” he asks. “Some kind of cruel prank?”

Fury gives him a _look_. An ‘I’m too tired for this bullshit’ look. “Do I seem like the kind of man who enjoys pranks?”

“C’mon, kid. It’s me,” the imposter insists. Peter watches him cautiously from the corner of his eye. If the man calls him ‘kid’ one more time he’s going to lose his shit. “You know, Tony Stark? Earth’s Greatest Defender? Spider-Man’s doting mentor?”

Tony punches him playfully in the arm. Peter sidesteps it before it makes contact.

“Okay, no joking. Bad idea.” Tony stands and holds out his flesh hand. It’s shaking. Peter notices for the first time that Tony’s face is gaunt and pale beneath the scarring. His other arm has been replaced with a metal prosthetic, painted hot rod red like the Iron Man suit. The limb drags down his frail shoulder. He’s lost weight. 

Peter stands on his own, rejecting the offer of help. He feels much more stable than Tony looks. 

“Not dead, huh?” Peter says.

“Not dead,” Tony agrees. “Coma. Well, up until about two months ago.”

“You were in a coma?” Peter takes a deep breath and tries to think of calming thoughts. Aunt May laughing as she somehow manages to burn pasta. MJ sketching in her notebook. Puppies and flowers and whatever else. It doesn’t work. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“No one knew at first,” Fury explains. “SHIELD had him. His survival was next to impossible, but we are the leading experts in achieving the impossible. Confidentiality was key.”

“I still have a bone to pick with you about that,” Tony says.

“Oh, shut up. You survived, didn’t you? Ungrateful son of a—“

“Less arguing, more explaining this mess,” Peter cuts in. “Please.“

Tony and Fury look at each other. Fury gestures for Tony to speak.“This is your knot to unravel. I don’t care what we tell the kid.”

“Like he said, SHIELD kept my survival confidential at first. Even I don’t know what sketchy methods they used to keep me going,” Tony says. “A few weeks after the memorial ceremony, I finally stabilized, and they told Pepper. I still didn’t wake up for months after that.”

“Who else knew?” Peter asks. “Pepper, obviously, but who else?”

“Harley and Morgan. Happy. Rhodey,” Tony lists. “What’s left of the Avengers...”

“When were you going to tell me?” Peter’s fingernails carve crescent moons into his palms. “Didn’t you miss me? Didn’t you want to see me?”

“Kid, I—“

“We had a funeral for you!” The words slip out before Peter can stop them. “I grieved you!” 

_I’m still grieving you_.

The room is struck into silence. Fury’s hand migrates to the gun at his hip. Peter’s chest feels tight again. 

“Nevermind,” Peter backtracks. The conversation is taking a vulnerable turn, and he doesn’t like it. “I can’t be in here. I need to clear my head.”

Fury blocks his way. “You aren’t going anywhere, Parker.”

“Watch me,” Peter growls. He shoulder-checks the man, but Tony’s metal hand grabs his upper arm, stopping him in place. Peter could easily rip away from him. It would be satisfying. Cathartic, even. 

“Slow down. Please,” Tony says. His voice is soft, like he is talking to a feral animal. He lets go of Peter’s arm. Peter makes no move to leave, even though he would rather be anywhere else. “You really shouldn’t go anywhere. Sit. I’ll explain everything.” 

Peter stares daggers at the man. It’s not the face Peter remembers. However, his concerned expression is all too familiar. The Dad Look, as Ned calls it. The ugly part of Peter wonders if Tony has had time to practice that look with his real kids. 

Questions buzz around his skull. If he leaves now, he might not ever get answers. Besides, where would he go? He’s a wanted criminal.

“Fine.” Peter makes his way to the table without looking at either of the men. He takes a seat at the head of the table to try and gain some power in this powerless situation. “Go ahead. Start explaining.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote a prequel series to this many months ago that focused on Harley moving in with the Starks during the 5 year time gap. I’ll post it when this story is done if people are interested :)
> 
> Also, please let me know if there is anything in this story I need to post warnings for. I’m still not quite sure how the tagging system works.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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